Mine
by Paper Ballerina
Summary: a little Fleur-de-Lys POV from the musical Notre Dame de Paris and her thoughts about Esmeralda.


**I thought i'd do a POV from Fleur-de-Lys. I thought she wasn't mention as much as she should, so here ya go lol**

I saw it. I watched, proud that Phoebus, What should have been MY Phoebus, was doing as I told him. He lied, he cheated and he promised_ Her_ death. Now I could be happy. My wedding day was promised to me to be a happy affair but nothing could top this. To see that witch die, I would be happy, happy with MY Phoebus.

But even as he arrests her and has her dragged away to the gallows I see the desire in his eyes, he will never be MY Phoebus. I have loved him most of my life and would always imagine being his wife, wearing the prettiest dresses and hats, bearing lots of handsome blonde headed sons and most of all ; being loved by this handsome soldier. That was all I wanted and_ She_ took it from me. That gypsy witch. Her dancing on the steps of Notre Dame in the sun turned his eyes from me. My expensive gowns wear nothing compared to her rags as she twirled about. I hate her. But if I can't have Phoebus to myself then she can't have him at all.

How could I compare to her? Her with her Spanish blood and dark curls, her exotic tongue and enchanting dance and me with my plain looks and Yellow hair? Nothing that Phoebus can see. She a filthy pauper and me a young lady of higher station. We should never be compared, there should be no competition. He was MINE, MY betrothed, My Phoebus and she and her gypsy curses made him leave.

See is dragged onto the platform. She is shaking in her rags, her dark hair falling over her face. Is she crying? I hoped so; I wanted her to suffer as I had suffered. Knowing that my one love didn't love me, not enough to be faithful. She just so her friend die and know she would die. I walk behind my Phoebus, he has condemned this Zingera to death for me. It is like a promise, the death of this Gypsy means the death of infidelity, and he will be MINE. He takes my hand and walks me to a suitable place to watch her death. There is nothing in his eyes now, they are cold, blank and they are on me.

We walk past the damned Gypsies, they glare, they spit and talk in strange tongues at us. MY Phoebus walks past proudly, I walk with my fiancé and soon to be my husband. As long as the Zingera is dead, nothing can harm my mood. I feel like her death will free me. I have had a taste of freedom; I know Phoebus will do as I say now. He will never hurt me again.

I see that silly bard, standing looking very forlorn at the gallows, did she enchant him too? The poor boy. But at least he escaped being stabbed by her gypsy blade (unlike my Phoebus) but was stabbed by her piercing black eyes. He stands completely still waiting, as we are, for her death. Nothing can safe her from the flames of hell now. She will burn for her sins as will my Phoebus, they will burn together in hell and there is nothing I can do to stop them seeing each other. Their lust burning like the flames, burning them forever more to remind them of their wickedness.

She stands, shadows of Notre Dame cloaking her in darkness. Her head is looking towards MY Phoebus, she must see him with me. The noose is around her neck and she is waiting for her death. Like my Phoebus awaited his death when she stabbed him. Nothing can safe her now. She holds her hands at her side, waiting. The sun glides over Notre Dame casting the shadows aside. I see her. The gypsy girl, looks very nervous with her hands now behind her back, she is looking towards the sky, the drums start to get faster, a sinister laugh echoes as the trap door opens, snap, twitch , creak; it was over.

It felt a jolt of adrenalin as I watch her neck snap. I was free of her. I had no competition. Phoebus was mine. I watched in awe as the body swung on the rope. In death she was as elegant as she was when she danced. But no one lust after a corpse so it didn't matter. Phoebus was Mine.

'Will you be mine now? In Body and in soul?' he asks me. I smiled charmingly , for there is nothing i want more , the body of La Esmeralda being dumped down before us. No one cares for the dead. Not even that loved up bard. I turn and look into the eyes of My Phoebus; those brown eyes so cold and uncaring towards her now are warmed by the sight of my blushing skin, my youthful skin, my living skin. He has ruined Esmeralda like he set out to do, why should he care now? When she is just another girl now and not La Esmerlada.It's funny i can say her name now that she is dead. My green eyes look up lovingly at him, my fiancé, my hero, my murder, my sun.

'Yes'


End file.
